As she worked she hummed. Into the network of woven threads she was weaving the future—a month hence—a year—two years—five. And the pictures pleased her progressively. Adrian, laughing into her eyes after the season's hard struggle, was at her side . . . a happy husband then . . . a beaming and foolishly proud father; and little tots with their father's fair hair—
Something—more a feeling than a sound—arrested her. She flushed at the thought that some one was looking at the pictures of her imagination. Abashed, perhaps a trifle annoyed, but without a thought of fear, she lifted her eyes. But when she beheld Koppy, hat in hand, standing at the edge of her retreat with head bowed, his humility seemed to call only for the sympathy always denied him. With maidenly modesty she gathered her work to tighter compass, but no other restraint did she feel in the presence of the man her friends accused of unthinkable crimes. The inheritance of her femininity assured her that she was in no danger. Koppy had always liked her—she knew that also by virtue of that inheritance; and every woman loves the strong thing that bends to her—loves, but perhaps does not respect.
Unconscious of the challenging coyness of words and manner, she spoke:
"You didn't frighten me a bit, Koppy."
"I didn't want to," he replied in a low voice.
"I don't think I heard you. I guess I must have—felt you."
He moved swiftly in among the trees and stood before her, soiled hat turning in grimy hands.
"You—felt me?"
A vague and sudden sense of discomfort made her raise puzzled eyes to his, but she dismissed it firmly as born of her father's suspicions. Still she wished he would not stand so close, stooping over her, with that funny look in his eyes. Suggestively she glanced at the white trunk on which she was seated, and moved further along.
"I suppose it's an instinct," she said. "Animals must feel like that about things they can't see or hear. Haven't you often been conscious of being watched when you couldn't see the watcher?"